#this is both for defensive properties and to hide the nature of her blind eye from other Hive.

[blackwaxidol]

this is Ru'thûn, her hobbies include eating lesser Hive and being immune to prion disease.

[wearywinchester]

Been Loving You

Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: After never having the nerve to tell each other how you feel, an opportunity presents itself even if it takes a little work.

Requested by Anonymous: Hi! Since your requests are on. Can you write a fluff/angst dean and reader fic, they both have feelings for each other and they're too insecure to admit it. And dean flirts with another girl and introduces her to the reader, reader acts like she's fine but then cries??

Word Count: 4k

Warnings: angst, flirting, mild heartbreak, jealousy, arguing, little bit of swearing, fluff, kissing

July, 2005

The day was breezy and warm, the clouds having lessened the heat that came with being in the midst of the summer season. Even if the clouds did nothing to stave off the effect of the sun you’d like to believe it actually had been, and you refused to think otherwise or else you just might break another sweat. You were tucked away in the middle of Bobby’s property amongst a lot full of cars ranging from totaled to rusty to salvageable should he feel like getting his hands dirty that day. He didn’t.

But one person that did was Dean Winchester.

You stood with your arms crossed over your chest, staring out over the dozens of car roofs, each one holding their own story as to just how it was they got there in the first place.

“Wrench,” Dean called out at some point, an instruction you only half heard. It was growing increasingly obvious that your mind was elsewhere, that your attention was directed at the puffy gray clouds in the distance. He’d noticed, peeking his head around the Impala from where’d he’d been working under the hood for an amount of time you lost track of. “Sweetheart, wrench.”

You turned your head at the nickname, a brief look of confusion crossing your face before you realized what it was he’d said. You rolled your eyes at the look on his face, one that softened to a smile as you handed over the wrench grasped in your hand. He took it with a shake of his head and a laugh not quiet enough for you to miss, and you breathed out a sigh.

“You’re a terrible helper, you know,” he jests, voice muffled from where he stood.

“Pretty sure I didn’t ask to help you, De,” you say, leaning back against an old truck.

“Too bad,” he says, flashing you a smile all while you furrowed your brows and pursed your lips at his words.

“Why not have Sam help you? I’m sure he knows more about cars than me.”

You heard him laugh again, head shaking at your assumption that Sam had any form of a clue on how to fix a car, let alone Dean’s car. The thought of Sam under a hood had him chuckling, the idea all too humorous. He pulled back to look at you. “First of all, he definitely wouldn’t. Second of all…”

He trails off, looking at you with a half smirk on his lips.

“What?” You inquire, amused curiosity in your tone.

“Sammy’s just not you,” he shrugs, a glimmer in his eyes as he leans back over the engine.

Your smile falls for just a moment as your heart skips a beat, that very smile returning once you realize just what it was that he had said. He’s just not you. You turned away and looked over your shoulder, a pitiful attempt to hide the way you couldn’t stifle your smile, your cheeks burning at what it was that could mean. Maybe it meant something and maybe it didn’t. But either way it’d surely be stuck on your mind for a ridiculous amount of time.

But soon your attention turns back to the very person that it’s always been on, and you were bound to be teased if he’d caught you staring but the thought didn’t sound quite so bad at that moment. In your defense, it was hard not to think about much else other than the way his brows furrow when he’s stumped on just what he wants to fix next, or the way his cheeks flushed ever so lightly under the sun, his freckles all the more prominent across the bridge of his nose. Smudges of grease had stained his t-shirt, painted across his knuckles and smeared on his forehead each and every time he’d wiped the sweat off with the back of his hand.

Maybe it was that, or maybe it was the way his necklace had dangled down and swung there until he finally got irritated enough to tuck it in his shirt with a mumble of a swear and a clench of his jaw. That was something, though—no matter how frustrated repairing this beloved car of his made him, no matter how much he huffed and puffed and tossed his tools down with a bit more force than necessary. It was the way his anger seemed to melt each time he’d looked at you, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a smile before he turned to try again with a better attitude.

Yeah, that was it.

You hadn’t realized just how distracted you’d been until you felt a hand on your cheek, calloused and warm, and when you looked up your eyes met the taunting green gaze of the older Winchester staring down at you. Your breath caught in your throat as the pad of his thumb brushed along your cheek, cheeks that burned under his palm and the way he’d been gazing had your heart pounding in your chest. Racing until you saw the familiar quirk pulling at his lips.

“Got a little somethin’ on your face,” he says, smiling an all too knowing smile.

You roll your eyes, turning away from him with a huff as you begin to walk away. “I’m eating the last slice of pie for that.”

You heard the metallic clink of a tool leave his hand and hit the ground, “no—no you’re not! That has my name on it and you know it.”

You shake your head as you quicken your pace, a smile on your lips as the butterflies in your stomach remain.

October, 2005

You stood in the small, one person bathroom, back to the mirror as you leaned against the small porcelain sink. The tears were already rimming your eyes as you stood there, having been at that same restaurant for forty-five minutes waiting for your date to show up even though you knew it’d been a bust after you’d waited the first fifteen minutes. You were miserable and embarrassed, and this was the exact reason you didn’t like going on dates in the first place.

Your hand was shaky as you pressed Dean’s name, holding your phone up to your ear as it rang all but two times.

He’d make a joke when he answered the phone, something you more than expected by that point each and every time you called him, especially when he knew you were on a date with a guy he’d been poking fun at the whole ride to the restaurant until he’d dropped you off. You couldn’t blame him, maybe you could, but that was just in his nature and there was no changing that.

“Was brown eyes that boring?”

His laugh sounded on the other end, lighthearted and upbeat in a way that had a soft huff leaving your lips as you rolled your eyes at his words.

“Dean,” you grumble, letting your eyes fall closed for a moment.

“Oh, come on. You know I’m not wrong. I just—”

“Dean.”

The simple use of his name that time had effectively cut him and his teasing short, leaving a beat of silence as you swallowed thickly now that you had his full attention. You didn’t even need to see him to be able to picture just what kind of expression he’d been wearing at the moment.

“Can you come pick me up?”

You hated how fragile your voice sounded, something you immediately cover up as you clear your throat in a pitiful attempt to distract him from it. You knew it wouldn’t but it was worth the effort anyway, anything to ease the fact that it must have been obvious that you were hurting.

It’d been all of ten minutes before the rumble of an engine came into earshot as you sat on the curb that bordered the restaurant, gathering more than a few stares of people showing up with their dates in tow. You knew it must have been obvious what you were moping about. The headlights were near blinding as he pulled up next to you, and you were on your feet in an instant as you sulked to the car and slumped in your rightful seat. Your misery was more than evident to him as he sat in the parking lot for a minute much to your dismay.

“Are you okay?” He asks, louder than he meant to be as he gave you a once over.

“Peachy.”

He rolls his eyes. “Are you hurt?”

“Just my ego,” you mumble with a huff, though you soften at the concern sounding in his voice. “‘M fine, Dean.”

His jaw tensed as he looked at you, lingering on the glimmer on your cheeks from the fresh tears you’d tried to wipe away. At the way your bottom lip quivered in a way that was all too telling that you weren’t peachy, you couldn’t be farther from it.

He hadn’t even wanted you to go on that date in the first place, jealousy having simmered in the pit of his stomach since the moment you told him about it. He didn’t even need to see the guy to know he wasn’t good enough for you, that he was up to no good. He hated the tone of your voice when you called him, he hated that he was right. Not that he thought he was good enough for you, not even remotely did he think that, but when you told him about brown eyes, he wanted to be selfish and have you to himself for the night. He wanted to be the one to take you out on that date.

“He’s a dick,” he said quietly, anger woven around his words as he looked at you. “And he damn sure doesn’t deserve you.”

You looked down at your lap, picking at the loose string of your dress. “Can we please go?”

He looked at you as you went and looked out of the window, jaw clenching even tighter as he gave you one more glance. He put the car in drive without another word, tires squealing as he sped out of the parking lot, headed back towards the motel.

March, 2006

The sticks cracked beneath two pairs of muddied boots, the sound near deafening in contrast to the silence amongst the woods you and Dean had found yourself in. It wouldn’t have been quite so bad if you knew where you’d been going even just a little bit, and it wouldn’t have been quite so bad if the sun wasn’t dipping lower and lower into the sky. Not to mention the fact that Dean was simmering in his own anger, and you were fairly certain that you were the cause. In fact, you knew you were.

The light rain that sprinkled over you ever so slightly through the trees hadn’t done very much to work in your favor, though you don’t think anything could at this point. Especially not the scrape grazing your cheek.

“Would you quit huffing? We’ll find a way out of here,” you finally say, nearly smacking into his back when he stops in front of you.

“Right, because we’re totally not stuck in the middle of freakin’ nowhere. If it weren’t for you we’d be out of here by now,” he snaps, brows furrowed deeply as he looks down at you.

“Oh, so this is my fault now?”

He laughed then, humorless as he looked away and shook his head, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek. You knew he was dangerously close to snapping, more than he already did, but even then you couldn’t find it in yourself to tread lightly.

“If I recall correctly, it was your brilliant plan to go and run off and chase a werewolf all by yourself in the woods. You went and got yourself hurt and you nearly got yourself killed. That seems a lot to me like how we got into this mess, doesn’t it, Y/n?”

“Dean—”

“You’re lucky you only came out of there with a scrape on your cheek and a busted lip.”

Your brows knit together and your fists clench, nearly on the verge of tears with how frustrated you’d been at the green eyed Winchester fuming in front of you. “Why are you so mad? I’m here aren’t I?”

He looked as if you’d asked the most ridiculous question he’s ever heard in his life. “Mad? Why am I so mad? You went out there today like you’re invincible. I’m angry because I—”

He cut himself short then, shaking his head as he looked away from you. Those three words were so close on the tip of his tongue he nearly made a fool of himself, his heart pounding and a huff puffing through flared nostrils as you nearly watched him unravel in front of you. The crease between your brows deepens as you watch his inner turmoil, fists relaxing at your sides.

“Forget it,” he says, just as frustrated as he plays it off and looks down at you just briefly. His jaw clenches once more before he hikes his bags up further in his shoulder, grabbing your hand and turning his back to you. “Can’t have you getting lost on me again.”

You roll your eyes but not once did you pull your hand from his.

July, 2006

Your eyes rolled for what had to be the millionth time that night as you slumped further down in your seat, your eyes lingering on the older Winchester and the girl he’d been flirting with at the bar counter for the last half an hour. Sam had caught on to the source of your misery not long after it began, but between the pout you tried so desperately to hide and the way it started right around the time his brother started talking to the pretty girl serving drinks just a few feet away, it wasn’t hard to figure out.

“Am I boring you?” Sam jests, closing the book of notes and newspaper clippings he’d been working from for the next hunt. Your gaze lifts from the table to meet his gaze, unamused by his teasing. “You know, instead of sulking, you could tell him how you feel.”

You snort as you sit up in your seat, dragging your hand down your face. “Sam, that might be the stupidest idea you’ve ever had.”

“Oh, come on. Would it be so bad?”

One glance over your shoulder had your stomach churning and twisting in knots, your gaze moving back to the brunette with the bad ideas. “Yes Sam, it would be terrible.”

The more you sat at that table the less you wanted to be there, the music having grown far too loud for your liking as a headache began to form. This wasn’t the first or the second time you’d been to this bar, it was the third because Dean had eyes for the beautiful bartender. Your food was nearly completely untouched and your drink the same, though you were starting to think it might be a good idea to go ahead and down it but there wasn’t nearly enough time to do that and get another argument in with Sam before that ever familiar voice got your attention.

“Everyone,” he starts, smiling ear to ear as his arm wrapped around her. “I’d like you to meet Julie.”

His grin was beaming as she laughed into his neck, whispering something in his ear that you surely didn’t want to know. Sam’s smile in your direction was as empathetic as ever, your heart sinking down to your stomach as you swirl your straw in your drink. The room was rapidly becoming more suffocating and stuffy, the commotion near nauseating as the pressure behind your eyes deepened. You couldn’t be there another moment.

“I’m feeling a little tired, I—I think I’m gonna go,” you say as you swallow down the lump in your throat, sudden as you rise from your seat and grab your bag.

The smile on Dean’s face fell slightly, brows furrowing. “You okay?”

“‘M fine,” you say, offering a smile as you brush past the pair in favor of making your way to the door.

The outside air, though not very much cooler than the bar, felt better on your skin as you clutched the strap of your bag. The tears that welled in your eyes wasted no time in spilling over your cheeks now that you were alone, lip quivering pitifully as the hurt in your heart seeped out in waves and made your tears fall faster. They rolled down your heated cheeks and raced along the length of your neck, gathering on the collar of your shirt one after another.

Falling in love with your best friend doesn’t seem so bad until it breaks your heart.

September, 2006

Of all the people to be trapped in a storm with, Dean Winchester isn’t one you’d wanted it to be. The rain had been coming down so hard you could barely see the Impala parked outside the motel room. The wind whipping around had cut the power, effectively stealing your chances of busying yourself with some tv to take your mind off of anything other than the man you shared a room with.

Locking yourself in the bathroom would certainly be an option you’d weighed over more than once in your mind, but the thought of sitting alone in a small room with absolutely no source of light hadn’t been something that enticing to you. The only light in the motel room was the frequent flash of lightning and Dean’s flashlight before the batteries died.

“When’s this storm supposed to die down?” He asked from his bed, getting up to peek out through the blinds.

“Why? You late for a date with Julie?”

It’s quiet for a few moments, the blinds snapping back once he lets go of them and you could feel his stare on you as you looked up at the ceiling from your spot on your bed. Your jaw clenched as another flash of lightning illuminated the room, a booming crack of thunder soon to follow it. You were just waiting for what he had to say.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” There it was.

“I think it’s pretty clear,” you say, tone as witty as it’d been for the last who-knows-how-long.

“We broke up a month ago, Y/n. ‘M surprised you don’t already know that. You know, since you’re the know it all of the friendship.”

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see you, a huff falling past your lips. “Quit it, Dean.”

“What is your problem, Y/n? You’ve been actin’ funny for weeks and it’s driving me crazy. You’re taking every chance you get to get away from me,” he says, anger woven around his every word as his voice raises over the thunder.

“I can’t exactly do that right now,” you say, rolling over on your side as you avoid his question and turn your back to him instead.

You heard him laugh to himself, one void of humor as the springs of his mattress squeak under his weight as he sat down. Your jaw tenses once more as you huff through your nose, loud enough for him to hear as you tried your best to make yourself comfortable for the night.

The emotions clouding your mind were bound to boil over at some point before the night is over now that you’d been stuck with the source of your heartache and you weren’t sure if you’d rather stay or walk through the downpour coming down outside. The more you thought on it, the more you thought better of it despite how tempting it may have been.

The simple sight of him had tugged at your heart, making you think of just how foolish it was to fall for your best friend, or perhaps even more so that you hadn’t told him before. You couldn’t get Sam’s words out of your head no matter how hard you tried. If Sam of all people thinks you should have then maybe it wouldn’t have been a bad idea to put your heart on the line. Maybe you should’ve said it, you certainly had plenty of opportunities to do it. But it didn’t matter anymore, not really, your heart was heavy and your mind was heavier as you sulked and moped in your own misery.

You pushed away your own best friend and it was time you’d never get back, all because you had feelings you couldn’t swallow down. But they were always there, and now they’d gone and boiled over.

“You wanna know why it didn’t work out between us?” He asks, sudden as his question cuts through the quiet in the room save for the ongoing storm. You don’t say a word, laying still as your gaze is fixed on the wall and your back remains to him. You don’t know what he could possibly say or what it was supposed to make you feel but you couldn’t find it in yourself to press for an answer. If he told you, fine, but if he didn’t—

“It didn’t work because she wasn’t you.”

You stilled even more if that was possible, your heart skipping more than a few beats as your brows furrow. You were utterly baffled, unsure if you’d even heard him correctly or if it was some dream you’d been having that you were bound to wake up from. Your movement was sudden as you sat up and turned around, the faint bit of light illuminating the expression you held.

“What?”

He sat across from you on the edge of his bed, brows knit together in the dim lighting. He laughed softly as he looked at his hands, shaking his head. He stood to his feet and ran his hands through his hair, pacing a bit before he stood still.

“You’re my best friend, Y/n. You’re a pain in the ass, sure, but you’re my best friend,” he starts, your lips pursing as he cracked a smile. “I don’t know how I didn’t see it lately, I really don’t. But I’ve been lovin’ you since I was sixteen and it took me ten years and a month full of you ignoring me to see it. She’s not you, Y/n.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He laughed softly, rubbing his face and releasing a sigh.

“Because, my life isn’t exactly a chick flick where the guy gets the girl of his dreams, is it, sweetheart? It’s more of a tragic Lifetime movie where the guy’s best friend falls for someone else,” he says, the corner of his mouth quirking up as he looked at his feet.

You swallowed thickly as you looked at him, cheeks burning and stomach filled with butterflies that raged in your stomach. You were at a loss for words as you sat there, starting to wonder for the second time that night if what you were hearing was a dream. Dean Winchester, your best friend, the one you’d spend the better part of ten years pining after, was in love with you. You couldn’t grasp that thought. Not that you had much time to before he spoke up.

“Sweetheart, please say something. I know you’re mad at me but right now I’m starting to feel a little bit like a complete idiot and I—”

Before he could finish you’d already stood to your feet and grabbed the collar to his leather jacket, your lips on his without second thought. It took him by surprise for just a moment before his hands settled on your face, his smile pressing into your lips. You pulled away for just a second, his lips lingering over yours in hopes you wouldn’t stray too far. You wouldn’t, just enough for you to say one more thing.

“You are an idiot.”

He huffed out a soft laugh as his breath brushed warmly against your lips, hands dropping from your face in favor of pulling you closer before he dipped down and kissed you again.

—

Tags: @flamencodiva @stixnstripesworld @dean-is-sams-apple-pie @elegantbutedgy @humanmistakes

[sabraeal]

Consider: Obi is green-red color blind

A Color by Any Other Name

Written for @aeroplaneblues for a surprise birthday gift! Many months ago she mentioned wanted to see a colorblind Obi, and I said, WELL WHAT A GOOD EXCUSE TO WRITE THIS PROMPT JOANNA GAVE ME. I hope your birthday is a good one, filled with a lot more nice surprises!

“Are you ever going to introduce me to your guard friends?” Suzu asks around a mouthful of dumpling. “Or are you embarrassed?”

To say Obi is unprepared, would be an understatement; there’s a pork bun lodged between his teeth, his gloves not only coated in pig grease but also far less effective against steam than he’d thought they’d be back when he’d just grabbed a plump little blob off the stall. He’d laughed off Suzu’s concerns about protective equipment; after all, if smiths use leather gloves, they’ve got to be just as good as an oven mitt.

They aren’t. Not to mention the roof of his mouth starting to have a real good think about peeling off and having a vacation. Maybe even with someone who doesn’t eat entire dumplings straight from the basket.

“Wha?” he manages eloquently, nearly drooling spicy meat drippings onto the street.

“I know I’m not cool like they are,” Suzu continues, warming to his new thesis. If his sudden flush of confidence is any measure, he’s spent more of time composing his arguments for this than Obi’s ever seen him work on his actual defense. “And I’m no good with a sword. Or fists. Or really any implement that isn’t a scalpel, and any opponent that isn’t already anesthetized. But I am very smart.”

There’s a thoughtful pause before Suzu adds, “Some people do enjoy that, you know.”

What Obi knows is that this kid tried this conversation on for size in front of Yuzuri, and she didn’t even bother to warn him as a courtesy. See if he buys her any more meat-on-sticks when she’s ‘left her purse in the lab’ now.

“That’s not--” he takes a hurried minute to swallow-- “not what’s happening. I didn’t...”

Even know you knew I didn’t work for the pharmacy. His teeth clamp shut around that winner, and its friend, I didn’t think you lot would want to hang out with a bunch of men without degrees. Not only would that encourage Suzu to make a scene right here, right now, but if it got back to Jirou-- well, if he thought Suzu could turn any day into a disaster, the lieutenant would make that seem like a vacation.

“I didn’t think you wanted to,” he settles on instead. Similar enough in feel, if...creatively edited. “You scholar types tend to flock together.”

“Well, sure,” Suzu murmurs, stymied, “but we’re friends too, aren’t we? If all my friends are your friends, then all your friends should be my friends.”

Only an academic could talk about arithmetic with that amount of confidence, especially the kind that involved transitive properties and letters, and all sorts of things that made Obi’s head spin.

“Well,” he hums, one boot scratching his calf. “You would know.”

Suzu whirls on him, staring down his long fox-snout of a nose. “You mean it? You’ll really...?”

“Sure. If that’s what you want.” He twitches his shoulders, more casual than he feels. “It’s fine if it’s you.”

There’s always been a lazy lilt to Suzu’s eyes, but it disappears now, all the sleepiness gone to surprise. “Me? You wouldn’t want to bring anyone else?”

“Well, definitely not Kazaha.” The glares he’d get bringing that twiggy pedant into the guardhouse might be enough to drop him dead on the spot. “And Yuzuri would be too popular.”

Suzu grimaces. “The number of admirers she’d get from a wink alone...she’d be unlivable.”

He can see it now, her ponytail bobbing with a buoyant glee, giggling through every painstaking penned line from her fan club-- “Think of all the bad poetry.”

“Honestly, that might make it worth it. At least I’ll feel better about not knowing the difference between a quartet and a quatrain.” Suzu takes a thoughtful bite of him bun. “And you couldn’t bring Shirayuki, of course.”

“Right.” Not a one of them could be trusted to keep their lips sealed; she’d hardly have to take a breath and someone would call her Obi’s lady, or ask how they met, or whether she’s still Mistress behind closed doors--

But Suzu wouldn’t know any of that. “Wait, why?”

“Well...” He has the grace to look chagrined about it, whatever it is. “You know. Her hair...?”

“Oh.” Obi shrugs. “Sure, I guess.”

“You guess?” Suzu stares. “Shirayuki has a non-zero amount of stories about being kidnapped for looking like a candied apple, and you guess there might be a fuss about bringing her ‘round to the guardhouse?”

“Well, none of you acted weird about it,” he snips, hiding his annoyance behind a bite of dumpling. “There’s no reason they will.”

“Of course no one at Lilias acted weird, Obi!” he squawks, arms flailing as he talks. “You couldn’t pay them to look at anything but their own project. But when a bunch of normal men with eyes and, uh, other working appendages see a cute girl with red hair and a soft voice, they’re gonna go crazy!”

His palm hooks around his shoulder, thumb digging into the hard knot at his collarbone. “Aw, come on. It’s not that special.”

“Not that--?” Suzu whips around, eyes round as dumplings. “Obi, she’s the only person I’ve ever seen with red hair.”

“You don’t get out much,” Obi deadpans. “No offense.”

“That’s not--” Suzu grunts, throwing up his hands-- “She’s the only person anyone’s ever seen with red hair!”

“Her dad’s is kind of red.” That observation wins him an unimpressed look, one that says you’re missing the point. “And Yuzuri had blue hair when I met her. That’s way more interesting--”

“It was dyed!” Suzu wobbles over to a wall, sitting with his head in his hands. “Shirayuki has a hair color so rare that the birth records in Clarines haven’t noted it in more than fifty years! And you think Yuzuri dying her hair with woad is more impressive.”

“Well, even her natural color is brighter than Miss’s. Not--” he waves a hand between them, quelling-- “that Miss’s hair isn’t nice enough. But I’d think that people would pay more attention to that.”

“...Brighter?” Suzu murmurs after a long moment, stilted. “Obi, could you tell me what color that sign is, right over there?”

“The one for the tea shop?” He wrinkles his nose. “Why--?”

“Just...indulge me for a moment.”

“All right.” He squints up at the moon cresting over a wolf’s head. “Blue.”

“Right, and, um, that coat over there.”

“Yellow.”

“Right.” Suzu’s voice is tight, stressed. “And what I’m wearing?”

Obi squints. This one’s a little harder, but he’s confident when he says, “Green.”

“Ah, right.” Suzu stands, a unsteady on his feet. “That would explain that, then.”

Obi blinks. “Explain what?”

“Obi,” Suzu begins, with all the gravitas of both a grim prognosis and a terrible joke. “You can’t see colors.”

*

It’s not the first time Obi’s played hound to his prey’s fox, but there’s something distinctly unsettling about it being Suzu that leaves him lagging behind, unsure of himself. Especially with the way he scurries through the concourse, bounding toward the mess hall with this idea caught between his teeth like chicken feathers.

“I can see colors just fine,” Obi informs him with far less confidence than he’d like. “Some of them are just hard to tell apart. Weren’t you and Yuzuri arguing yesterday about whether salmon is orange or pink?”

Suzu waves a hand at him, dismissive. “That’s different. Salmon’s both orange and pink, and what color it looks most like has to do with the composition of your eye-- and it’s pink by the way, with orange undertones--”

Between the two of them, Obi knows who he’d trust to know their colors. “Uh-huh.”

“You can’t make out red and green, which is different entirely, and--” the doors to the mess burst open beneath his hands, a noise lost in the din of a hundred scholars trying to share the same table-- “YOU GUYS WON’T BELIEVE WHAT I JUST FOUND.”

The whole of Shidan’s lab-- minus the man himself-- have taken up right by the door, bags and coats piled to save them their places on the bench. Suzu makes short work of the pile on his seat, haphazardly shoving them to the floor as he sits.

Kazaha peers at him and ventures mildly, “A new way to avoid finishing your thesis?”

“No,” Suzu hums between his grit teeth, “but I have found out--”

“I don’t think we need to do this,” Obi murmurs, handing Miss her muffler. “It’s not--”

“Obi,” he intones with far more gravitas than his name has ever strictly deserved, “can’t see colors.”

“Not at all?” Kazaha turns those sharp eyes to him, like he’s a specimen under glass. “Just black and white?”

“I can see just fine,” Obi huffs, tossing Yuzuri her coat before he slides onto the bench, knee knocking into Miss’s in a way that puts his heart through its paces. “Suzu is just making a mountain out of a molehill.”

“Is that so?” he hums with a grin. “Then what color is Shirayuki’s hair?”

He stifles a sigh. It’s best to put all this to bed now, before he’s stuck playing what’s this color for the next two years. “Red.”

“What’s the point of this?” Yuzuri yawns, already bored. Obi shoots her a grateful look, glad that at least one of them isn’t going to play Suzu’s game.

It’s too bad he’s already puffed up with unearned confidence, like an evolutionist at a botany lecture. “And what’s the color of Ryuu’s cloak?”

He knows it by heart-- how could he not, when the two most important people in this city wear matching ones-- but still Obi glances up, anticipating a trick. Ryuu stares back, confused and guileless. “Blue.”

“Great, good.” Suzu’s grin stretches from ear to ear. “Now what color is your scarf?”

Obi’s fingers knot in the fabric, the weft tickling the pads of his fingers. “Well, it’s...sort of reddish, isn’t it?”

This is the wrong answer.

“It makes so much sense,” Yuzuri murmurs in wonder. “You really don’t know how ugly Suzu’s outfits are. That’s why you still hang out with him.”

“Hey!” Suzu pouts. “That’s not very nice.”

“No, that has nothing to do with color, it’s the cut.” Anxiety spikes through him. “But wait, it is red isn’t it? My scarf?”

“No,” Miss murmurs at his side, cheeks flushes. “Obi, it’s...it’s green.”

He stares down at it, trying to imagine what that might look like. “Green.”

“It looks very nice on you!” Her small fingers wrapping in the fur at his elbow. “It’s your color, really.”

“Oh, sure,” he murmurs, faint. “I guess it matches my eyes.”

“Hey, what do you mean ‘it has nothing to do with the color?’“ Suzu’s hands fly to his hips, brows drawn tight over the long line of his nose. “My clothes are just fine.”

“They aren’t.” Obi leans in next to him, grin feeling thinner than it should. “But I hang out with you anyway, which means you know we’re really friends.”

Kazaha rubs at his chin, where his ode to Shidan’s goatee is failing to thrive. “You know what this also explains?”

Obi blinks. “What?”

“All the black.”

It’s not Kazaha that says it, oh no. That would be too merciful for a mortifying moment out of his life. Instead it’s low and feminine, and when Miss Kiki leans out from the other side of Miss, it’s like a siren emerging from the depths, teeth bared to tear a man to shreds. “What an interesting thing I’ve learned today.”

“Miss Kiki! How--?” He gulps. “Why--?”

“I came to deliver a message from Wirant,” she drawls, too pleased. “And it seems I’ve earned myself a fine tip.”

“No,” he breathes. “You can’t-- you’re not going to tell Master, are you? Or Sir?”

“Oh,” she hums, looking particularly hungry for manflesh. “I certainly will.”

*

“Oh, there there.” Miss pats his back, the sensation lost among the dozen layers of clothing between them. “I’m sure Kiki won’t tell them, not until you’re ready! You asked her not to.”

“I think that just means,” Obi mutters, voice muffled by his arms and the wall he’s throwing himself over, “that she’ll just enjoy telling them more.”

“Ah...” He doesn’t need to see her to know her grimace. “Yes, that’s...probably right.”

He lets out a heavy, dramatic sigh. It helps a little. So does a bit of flailing.

“They won’t make a big deal out of it,” Miss says, changing tack. “It hardly changes anything! I’m sure they’ll just forget as soon as she tells them.”

He peeps one eye over his elbow. “That’s easy for you to say, you haven’t spent the last half an hour playing What’s That Color.”

“Well,” she wheedles, “they are scholars.”

Obi groans, loud and long, which doesn’t help; but it echoes out over the rooftops, returning back to him, which does.

“How...?”

Miss hesitates, a gloved finger pressed to her lips. He sighs, already braced for the onslaught-- how didn’t you know? how did you go so long without knowing your colors? how do you find people if you can’t even tell what hair color they have--?

“How did you notice?”

Obi lifts his head, unblinking. “What?”

“How did you notice?” Miss repeats, more firmly this time. “You’ve spent your whole life this way, haven’t you? It must have taken something really special to realize there was more than what you see.”

“Uh.” It’s nice that it’s darker here, that it’s cold. He has perfect legitimate reasons to be flushed. “Well, it was Suzu really. He mentioned that--” his teeth clamp down around his words, not letting them out without a hasty edit-- “that people think your hair’s pretty special, and I said I didn’t get why...”

Miss stiffens beside him, a statue that breathes, and he hastily adds, “Not that you aren’t special, Miss. It’s just, the red...”

“Right.” The words comes out stilted, strange. “You can’t see it. You actually...haven’t ever seen it.”

A silence settles on them like a wool blanket; not one of those nice ones at the castle, or the fleecy ones Miss stockpiles like one day the North might run out of sheep, but the itchy, coarse-woven ones of his childhood. Uncomfortable and smelling faintly of animal.

“So,” he coughs, fixing his gaze out over the city. “What did Kiki want?”

“Oh...” Miss shifts, mouth pulling into a guilty grimace. “She came to tell me that the Queen Dowager has invited me to dinner. Tomorrow night.”

His brows raise. “Well, well.”

“Don’t,” she murmurs, head giving the barest shake. “It’s not like that.”

“Are you sure?” He shouldn’t press, but if he doesn’t, no one else will. “After you told Master--”

“I told him a list of reasons why I thought I would be a better ally as a friend, and not as a...” Miss loses steam, letting her words sigh into the air. “I’d like to believe this has to do with my work with Phostyrias.”

He watches her, careful. “But do you?”

“I don’t know,” she says, which is as good as any no.

*

Obi’s barely stepped into the Protector’s solar when Master asks, “What color is my jacket?”

His head swivels, delivering a glare so flat carpets would be jealous. Miss Kiki only hums, shoulder lifting in a disinterested shrug. “I said I was going to tell them.”

Fair enough.

“It’s blue,” he deadpans, flopping onto the cushiest divan. He’s too long for it, his boots spilling off one arm a idling over the floor. “Apparently I can see that one just fine.”

According to Miss, at least; she’d unearthed a slip of a book from the university’s library, outlining the limits of his sight. Little Ryuu had pored over it for a day before showing up at his door, flushed faced and nervous.

Garrack always told me I had nice eyes, he’d admitted, lingering at the threshold. I was hoping you could see them.

Cross as he is about the whole thing, Obi can’t regret that. He might not have Miss’s hair, or Suzu’s coat-- thankfully-- but Ryuu’s eyes would always look true to him.

“But not red.” Master’s mouth twitches, far too entertained. “Or green.”

“I do see them,” he protests. “They just...don’t look very different to me.”

Just another shade of yellow and brown, if those books are right. Which they are, since he’d always thought so. Subtly different, like the way Suzu and Yuzuri fought over salmon, or Master and Miss Kiki would dither over chartreuse. Just enough that he’d been able to eke by on keeping his mouth shut and a fondness for black.

Still, there’s nothing worse than finding out something new about yourself this late in the game. Especially when--

“What about the curtains?” Master inquires. “Can you see those?”

--Especially when it’s so endlessly entertaining to everyone else. “I can see them,” he grumbles, sinking further into the cushions. “Just because I can’t see some colors doesn’t mean I’m blind.”

“Then what about the note?”

Obi rolls his gaze to where Sir perches at his desk. “Huh?”

“To our red-haired guest.” Sir coughs, a flush working its way up his neck. “It’s just-- you wrote that.”

“Oh, His Grace told me that one.” A lifetime ago, it seemed. “‘The red-haired girl, you’ll know her when you see her, I’m sure.’“

Master winces. Obi can admit his talent doesn’t lie with impressions, especially ones of dour old men.

“Right,” Sir presses, voice oddly tight. “But you don’t see-- I mean, how could you find a girl that looks just like everyone else?”

“Ah...” He grimaces, scrubbing at the top of his head. “Well, I just looked for the girl who didn’t belong. It--” he hesitates, suddenly aware of Master’s eyes on him-- “didn’t take very long.”

Master’s frown belongs above one of those prie-dieu, to remind penitents that forgiveness isn’t absolute. “What is that supposed to--?”

“So what does she look like?” No one could say that after a decade of dedication, Miss Kiki doesn’t know how to do her job; she deflects Master’s brewing sour mood with the ease of a professional. “What does her hair look like to you?”

“Uh.” He clears his throat, tugging at his collar. “I wasn’t lying when I said I bought my scarf to match...”

There is a stillness to the room that is too much, too pitiful. Much as he hated it, Obi would much rather be a joke than a charity case.

“Huh,” Sir grunts, gaze still fixed to his neck. “Now I wonder what we all look like to you.”

“Well, I sort of wonder what you all look like to yourselves.” Obi let a sigh float wistfully through his lips. “At least I know that me and Miss still have the same eyes.”

There’s silence again, but this one buzzes, filled with words no one dares to say.

“What?” he laughs, nervous, pulling himself upright. “Don’t we?”

Sir grimaces. “Ah, Obi...”

*

Miss is quiet when they walk the walls home that night, the winter stillness making the silence and heavy as any drift. Her mouth is pursed, not with anything like anger, but something closer to consideration. As if there’s words back there she’s sorting through, trying to compose a thought that just won’t come.

Well, she should know: she won’t get anywhere if she doesn’t air a few of them out to look at. “Something wrong, Miss?”

She blinks, shaken out from wherever she gone away. Her mind palace, maybe. Suzu’d told him about those once, with busts and painting and curtained alcoves. What she’d do with a place like that, he couldn’t imagine, but if anyone asked, he’d put his money on hers having apothecary drawers instead, and gardens too. The kind with half crumbled walls, ivies curled around every stone. Cluttered desks piled high with books, and one of them with curtain drawn to let its owner nap the afternoon away.

“Oh,” she breathes, finally. “No, no. Nothing’s, um, wrong. I was just...thinking.”

He lifts a knowing brow. “So something is wrong.”

“That’s not what I said,” she informs him, primly. “I was going over my meeting with Haruto, and...”

Her lips snap shut around the words, distress narrowing her eyes. “And...?”

“She didn’t know about my work,” Miss huffs, arms wrapping tight around her chest. “Or, she did, but only what Zen had told her. Which...”

Was far less than the whole of it. He’d heard that part of her argument that night, try as he might not to. “So she invited you as Zen’s ally?”

“No.” The word is colder than any he’s ever heard fall from her lips. “That I wouldn’t mind-- I’m still trying to be his ally, after all, and if she saw me as an asset...” She shook her head. “No, she wanted to meet his...paramour, even if she didn’t say as much.”

Obi grimaces.

“And even that wouldn’t be so bad if...” Miss took a deep, steeling breath. “When I came in, after all the curtsies and pleasantries, she said, your hair is just as red as he said it was.” Her knuckles are white where they wrap around her elbows. “All those years, all those letters, and the only thing he thinks to tell his mother is that my hair...”

The rest is lost in a sigh, a cloud of mist swirling off the wall.

“It must really be something,” Obi deadpans, gaze following it off the edge. “Since it makes all these people forget how smart you are.”

She’s watching him; he can feel it as she sidles up to where he stands, hands unclenching from her arms and splaying on the crenellations instead. “Obi, you really can’t...?”

Miss hesitates, falls silent. He lets her; she’s put enough words in the air to sort through, and now all she needs is time. Obi’s happy to give it to her.

Especially since there’s a rabbit down there in the dark. A small one, moving slow, hind legs churning like clockwork winding up. It’s nose digs into the snow, snuffling around, searching--

“Can you really see better?” Miss asks, startling him back to the wall. “In the dark, I mean. That book said you could.”

“Well, after the past couple days, I’m a little shaky on what’s normal.” He jerks his chin over the edge. “Can you see the rabbit down there? Right by that sapling?”

She blinks, pressing in close. “The what? It’s just...dark out there.”

“Well,” he says, grin tight on his lips. “There’s your answer.”

Miss settles back on her heels, one hand already cupping her chin. “It makes sense. Without the distraction of color, your movement tracking must be much more acute...”

Obi only half-manages to stifle a laugh. “Seems like it definitely distracts everyone else.”

Miss goes quiet; almost too quiet, enough to make his teeth sit on edge. The seconds tick by, and Obi might play at patience, but it’s not in his nature. He glances down, just from the corners of his eyes, but Miss is already watching him, eyes strangely shuttered.

“Obi,” she says, so clear his name rings in his ears. “You don’t...? My hair, it’s not...” Her mouth works, quiet, before she manages, “It’s not anything to you?”

Anything special, she means. Because that’s what he said so stupidly last night, nothing special.

She’d tied it up tonight, finagling the strange looping knots that were partial to the queen’s court, but already some of it’s worn loose, slipping from its pins. “It is,” he murmurs. “I like it.”

She huffs, unimpressed. “But you can’t see it, not really.”

“Of course I can see it,” he laughs, weary. “Maybe not the color, but that’s fine. I like it because it’s yours.”

She ducks her head, and Obi might not be good at colors, but he can see her cheeks flush in the lamplight.

“Miss.” Her gaze lifts to his, no longer shuttered, just full. “Can I ask you something?”

Her breath catches. “Anything.”

“Be straight with me,” he pleads. “We do have the same eye color right?”

*

“Obi!” Miss‘s laughter bubbles bright with betrayal as she hops down the stairs after him. “Obi, please--”

“Let me grieve, Miss,” he grumbles, hands shoved in his pockets. “I’ve been a real champ about the rest, but let me have this.”

“Obi!” She catches him round the wrist, mouth twitching as she turns to him. “Is it really so bad that they’re gold?”

“No,” he mutters sullenly, shoulders slumped enough that with two stairs between them, they’re nearly the same height. “It’s just...”

Her eyes flutter wide with curiosity. “Just...?”

“It’s fine enough that they’re unique.” He spits the word with more venom than it deserves. “I just I wanted this one thing in common.”

“In common?” Miss blinks. “You mean, me and...?”

Obi would lay down his life for his mistress, but even she can’t ask him to do this, to lay down his pride for her to walk on.

“Oh!” She flusters, limbs fluttering in the air between them. He’s half-tempted to turn away again, but she grabs his face and holds him steady, her cold, slender fingers caught behind his jaw. “Just-- just one moment...”

“Miss?” he wheezes. This is entirely too close, too much--

“Yes!” He breath flutters over his lips, her own parting in a celebration of teeth. “That’s it. I see it. There’s a little, right there.”

He blinks. “A little what, Miss?”

Her teeth flash around the word, “Green.”

It’s cruel to throw a starving dog a bone, but he snaps it up anyway, heart nearly clogging up his throat with hope. “D’you mean it? You’re not just saying that to make me feel better.”

“Really,” she promises, her nod serious and officious as any she might give Little Ryuu. “There’s a thread, right around the middle. Green. Just like mine.”

“Oh.” His own hands raise, leather muting the feel of her skin, but-- Master always told him about the red thread that bound him and Miss together, that drew them toward their fated meeting, but this-- Obi will take this too. “Thank you, Miss.”

She smiles, eyes shining bright in the lamplight. “No, Obi, it’s my pleasure.”

Not much different between green and red to him, anyway.

[ask-de-writer]

SEA DRAGON’S GIFT : Part 78 of 83 : World of Sea

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SEA DRAGON’S GIFT

Part 78 of 83

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

140406 words

copyright 2020

written 2007

All rights reserved.

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express consent of the author.

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Copyright fair use rules for Tumblr users

Users   of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights.  They may   reblog the story provided that all author and copyright information   remains intact.  They may use the characters or original characters in   my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical   compositions.

All sorts of fan art, cosplay, music or fiction is actively encouraged.

///////////////////////

New to the story?  Read from the beginning.  PART 1 is here

///////////////////////

Kurin smiled, “Did you give helmswoman Darkistry the idea to ride the eye of the Coriolis storm north?”

“No, Little Fish, that was her own idea, and an excellent one.  At that time they did have to hide but I could not allow them escape over the Dragon Sea to another fleet.  I still regard the Naral fleet as my fleet and it had done a terrible injustice.  If the fleet was not given the opportunity to undo the injustice, a new Captain of Captains could arise.  War and ruin could follow.  It has before.”

“When and where did you have your talk with Barad and Tanlin?” Kurin asked Mecat.

“In the eye of the storm, as the Grandalor rode it north.”

“Besides barring them from flight,” Kurin wanted to know, “what else happened during that talk?”

“I found out why the Lady Tanlin was so highly regarded by such a rough-cut crew.  That led me to give her a Dragon’s Gift.”

“What was the nature of the Gift, if you will tell us?” asked Kurin with high interest.

“Singularity of self, acceptance of loss, internal peace, an end to nightmares. She deserved no less,” said Blind Mecat quietly.  “She made many hard choices.  The Wide Wings, Skye and Thunderhead, got included in the Gift by accident.  That may have far reaching ecological consequences.  I urgently wish to find out.”

“I think that you will have that chance, Mecat,” said Kurin.

Turning to face the Court, Kurin paced as she talked.  “The incident with the Fauline is now closed and all the charge of piracy dealt with. We have the word of Dragons who were direct witnesses.  By the Tenth Great Law the facts as described by Captain Barad are incontestable.

“The matter of the poison plot has been exposed, not as the action of a whole ship, nor even of a large cadre, as it indeed did appear.  It was the work of a very limited circle.  It is probable that at least one murder, Master Selked’s apprentice, Merk, was committed solely to reduce the size of the circle even further.  Captain Barad, having changed his mind about the plot, tried energetically to prevent harm to me or any other.

“Mister Morgu and Silor Elon, who are being held prisoner aboard the Grandalor for Council trial, were the sole attackers.  On them alone lie the charges of murder, attempted murder and mutiny.

“As to the matter of unlawful flight, it was the Council itself that broke the Second Great Law.  The Grandalor had both a duty, now discharged, to seek proper justice and the necessity to preserve the lives of the innocent against the blatant injustice involved.

“Neither Barad nor Tanlin can be held accountable for the piratical attack by the Longin on the Grandalor.  I personally ordered the counter attack in defense of both the lives of the crew in my care and the ship itself, my sole property.  Effort and care were exercised to minimize the damage to the Longin while still putting her out of action.”

That revelation caused consternation among the Court and spectators.  A shocked Sula demanded, “You ordered the attack on your own ship?”

“The ship that I grew up on, yes,” said Kurin softly.  “And it was the hardest thing that I’ve ever done.  I had to, Sula.  These lives were in my hands.”  From her pile of notes, Kurin pulled out the book entitled ‘Grandalor Adoption Register.’  She handed it over, with the simple explanation, “I’ve confirmed the whole lot, personally.  There’s not one person on board, except for the two prisoners, who did not adopt in.  They did it after they knew what kind of trouble they were in.  Captain Barad had saved many of them and they were determined not to let him down in his need. Barad and Captain Tanlin have that loyalty from their entire crew.  Few Captains do.”

“I petition the Court to dismiss all current criminal charges and actions against the Grandalor, her crew, officers and Captains.  They acted as reasonable people.  Their assessment of the situation was proved accurate on all counts but one.

“They had no need to flee from the Honored Huld and the Soaring Bird.  He was seeking to enforce their rights and would have fought Sula herself if necessary to do so.”

This bombshell caused consternation among the audience.  The Great Sea Dragons were regarding each other and nodding their agreement.  It made sense of confusing reports from Iren’s Orcas.  Sula turned to Huld and said, “You said that we must pursue.  That’s part of the reason that I did.”

Huld thought for only moment before saying, “Indeed, necessary it was. Injustice obvious was.  Rights protected and enforced was need. Found them not.  Error found you for yourself and correction made without help.  Way of adult, not child.”

Sula turned to Kurin and asked, “How did you know?”

“I long ago asked him what Honored meant,” Kurin replied.  “If what he told me were true, and I believed him, then he could not act in any other way.”

Sarfin concentrated on the petition that accompanied the revelation.  He consulted Sula for a few minutes of whispered conference.  Both gestured and remonstrated, at the last asking, “Captain Farrol, do you have anything further to add to your case?”

“An hour ago, you could not have changed my mind about Barad or any from his ship.  Guilty, I would have said.  Since then, I have heard Dragons testify in Court.  I have heard things that make sense out of things that I have accepted without question.  We, the Court, still have much business to address.  The Grandalor case though, I concede. They are innocent of these charges.”

Sarfin stood and raised his hands for silence and got it.  “The decision of the Court in this matter is final and may not be appealed.  The Grandalor and her entire crew as represented in this document,” he held up the ‘Grandalor Adoption Registry’, and her Captain at the time of the charges, are innocent.

“I am not done.  Captain Barad shows many qualities that are, now that we understand them, admirable.  He has saved lives that would have been lost.  He is right.  We did not look into many matters as well as we ought to have.

“Unfortunately, that does not excuse the civil matter of the counterfeit scrip and many other infractions of conduct.  His Master’s Certificate is revoked.  In five Gatherings, he may petition the Council for reinstatement.  During the penalty, he may not hold any position of command.

“Captain Tanlin, subject to approval by the full Council at the next Gathering, is instated as Captain of the Grandalor.

“This trial is now over.”  He sat.

Kurin stood and held up her hands for recognition.

Captain Urson sarcastically said, “What, isn’t it enough that you got that load of scupper trash off?”

“No,” said Kurin with deceptive mildness, “it isn’t.”

Turning to Captain Sarfin she stated, “There are Council charges that must be brought against the Fauline.  As the owner of the Grandalor and her advocate before the Naral fleet, I am the proper person to bring these charges for the ship.  

“The Fauline dodged share tax.  She knowingly brought false capital charges against another ship. You have the Word of Dragons on those. She has willfully lied to the Council.  She could not have got to the Arrakan fleet and then to her Spring waters in the time that she had.

Kurin smiled slightly and added, “In addition, she has not yet filed the quitclaim on the Grandalor’s hull secured loan, as an integral part of her deception of the Council.  Until all the parchments are signed, the Grandalor, remains out of the Naral fleet and cannot legally collect what is due to her.  Thus, her loan reverts to the fleet and the Grandalor will cheerfully leave it with the fleet as partial payment of her fines.  That makes the entire 12,306 Skins, 209 blocks of arrears due for immediate payment.

“If they produce the quitclaim, the date will prove it to be false, because their Log will show them to be in Arrakan fleet waters at the time.  The loan will have to be paid up to current.  If the date is any other than what the Court has heard from the Great Sea Dragons, the entire document is void due to forgery and the loan must still be paid.

“However it falls out, Skua, by Naral fleet Law, must lose his Master’s Certificate for life because he willfully allowed his ship to become bankrupt.  Also by Law, the bankrupt vessel must be Scattered.”

Captain Urson slammed both hands down on the table and launched herself to her feet in a rage.  “You little Ord!  How can you do that to somebody like Captain Skua!  What did he ever do to you?”

Kurin looked at her as if she were a particularly noisome bit of offal. “To me personally, nothing.  To my fleet, he’s a liar, cheat and tax dodger.  To my friends, the Grandalor and her crew, he’s a scoundrel who doesn’t pay his debits, a rapist and an attempted murderer.  I try to take care of those that I like.”

Captain Urson was about to sit again when it hit her.  “What do you mean, rapist?” she asked uneasily.

Kurin once again spoke with that deceptive mildness that Captain Urson was now beginning to dread, “Captain Sarfin, I have a few parchments here that may be of interest.  These are fleet certified copies of unaltered Grinna Log entries.  They detail a trial held some Gatherings back.  You will find my copy of the same entries, for comparison, marked and highlighted for witness’ names and certain other information.”

She handed over another set of parchments with the explanation, “These are fleet certified, unaltered crew duty rosters for the time periods noted in the trial record, along with the whole Wohan before and after.  Please note that every crewman or woman in that whole time who is absented from duty for more than a few minutes is noted.

“A simple comparison of the witness list and the duty roster proves that this trial was never held at all.

“The charge was seduction in violation of the Marriage Laws, a potentially capital offense, if no ship will take in the one found guilty.

“Captain Macom, now deceased,  First Officer Skua Calin Grinna, Second Officer of the First Night Watch, Kotance Warn Grinna, Harpooner Miklot Moen Grinna, now dead from a Strong Skin attack, and one other conspired to the rape, attempted murder and denial of Great Law rights to one Darkistry Colm Grinna, now Darkistry Colm Grandalor.”

TO BE CONTINUED

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[diego-hargreeve2]

light in the dark

Part Eighteen

Fandom: The Umbrella Academy (Netflix)

Ship: Diego Hargreeves x Original Character

Warnings: Language, abuse (emotional and physical), mental illness, violence and, in later chapters, smut.

In the Brethren they made their own clothes. Eve had few talents, but she knew how to sew, and how to knit. Diego’s clothing was full of holes – she could only assume caused by other people given that he wielded his own knives with a precision she found both slightly terrifying and incredibly arousing at the same time – and she’d persuaded Paula at the shelter to lend her a needle and thread to let her fix a few of the worst. After seeing her repairs, she had become the go-to person for taking up hems, stitching up holes that would let draughts in, and fixing the wear and tear in clothes you get from living on the streets. She was happy to do it in truth, to feel useful and because it was one of the few activities from her childhood she still enjoyed, finding peace in the simple task where you could measure your progress in such clear ways.

On the basis that she expected Diego to swing by at some point she was sat in what the shelter called a ‘foyer’ – hardly more than a wide hallway in truth by the front door – and keeping an eye out for arrivals so she could call somebody actually qualified to help that. Eve expected anyone who walked through to be…well, like her. In need of a shower, wearing clothes that prized function over fashion, and looking for somewhere safe to put their head down.

She didn’t expect Detective Patch.

Her head lifted before her eyes as she finished the stitch and pulled the thread taut before looking up – and staring, stunned.

“Eve? What’re you doing here?” Eudora asked, frowning in confusion. In one hand she held a poster, details of a missing teenager she’d been handing out to every shelter in her precinct in hope of finding the boy before somebody with less honourable intentions.

“I live here” she explained, mentally kicking herself for the answer - that was far more than she needed to have revealed, more than she should have revealed. Placing her needle down she lifted one hand, twisting it behind to grab the phone that sat on the desk. Leaving Eve here helped free up a staff member to cook, to clean, to talk to those who had nowhere else to go – but they would answer when she hit the buzzer that rang through the building.  

“You live here?” Eudora repeatedly, her voice full of pity and sorrow at the concept. As shelters went, this was a good one – when she found people who needed help, it was her preference to bring them here. It relied on charity but was better funded than some, and there was no religion or sanctimonious cruelty in its walls, but it was still intended to be a temporary shelter not a long-term home. Eve shrugged, one finger holding the button down that set off a buzzer and an older woman bustled through, lighting up with a far more welcoming smile than Eve had offered.

“Eudora my dear! How are you?”

It had been a long day and a friendly face was a relief at this point. Detective Patch handed over the poster, discussing in low tones what she knew about the teenage runaway and her concerns. What she wanted was to know where he was, and to know he was okay – she wouldn’t force him back home, there were other options, but first she had to find him.

“If he shows up, we’ll call” Kathy assured her, one hand reaching out to squeeze Patch’s elbow gently. “I’ll put this in our back office – wouldn’t want to scare him off by hanging it up out here”.

“Thanks Kathy” she said, a weary smile crossing her face.

The woman left, disappearing into the shelter, and Eudora considered Eve – it hadn’t escaped her notice that the blonde had watched their entire interaction out the corner of her eye whilst pretending to busy herself with a needle. Only when Patch faced her directly did Eve drop her gaze back to her lap, silent and waiting for the door to swing shut and mark her exit. Except Patch had a different idea. Walking over she stood directly before Eve.

“This was the last stop of my shift – and I’m far too tired to consider cooking. Fancy coming to get a bite to eat with me?” she said, trying to keep the offer light and avoid sounding like she was taking advantage of a chance to interrogate the other.

Eve looked up with a gaze full of wariness. Patch had seen that look a lot – in stray animals when she was a kid, cats she’d tried to tempt with meat scraps so she could trap them and take them to be fixed, in children whose parents emphasised their points with fists, in women who didn’t understand that love isn’t accompanied by scrapes and bruises. It still broke her heart; she had never grown used to it.

“Why?” she asked after a moment.

“I hate to eat alone in public – plus I know a place that sells the best fried chicken” Patch joked, but there was no answering smile and she sighed. “Because you’re Diego’s girl, right? And Diego…is an old friend. I’m probably the person whose known him longest who isn’t family. So, I’d like to get to know you”.

Dropping her gaze back to her idle needle Eve considered. Put like that, it did make sense. Eve hadn’t done a good job so far in integrating herself with his friends, and the suggestion tugged at the guilt she felt over her difficulty in making friends. And Diego trusted Patch…

“Okay. I’ll come along. Give me five minutes” Eve said after a moment, unravelling herself without dropping her stitching and disappearing through the door.

When she returned – wearing her coat, the parka huge on her and half hiding her hands even with the sleeves folded up and followed by another volunteer to take up her position on watch – she was secretly hoping Eudora would have gotten bored waiting – but no, there she was, lounging in the seat Eve had vacated and she stood up rapidly.

“So…where are we going?” Eve checked, hovering by the desk.

“It’s called the Chicken Hut – it doesn’t sound much, but trust me” she assured the other, wondering why the name mattered – but she got her answer in a moment. Eve touched one hand to the desk, ensuring she had the young man’s attention and offering a faint smile.

“If Diego comes by – tell him where I’ve gone?”

“Sure thing Evie” was the response, the volunteer already putting his feet up and opening a book, happy for the break.

As they walked out the building Eudora gestured to her car, although in truth the distance could have been walked. Then she’d have had to walk back though – and frankly, she preferred to keep her cruiser close by.

Once they were both in and buckled up, Patch couldn’t resist the urge to ask, “So – Diego just expects you to be there whenever he shows up?”

Put like that Eve knew it sounded pathetic and she blushed hotly.

“I don’t…I generally don’t have anywhere else to go. It’s more that…he’d be worried, because me not being there or at his place would be weird”. Patch had expected Eve to sound defensive, maybe even annoyed, but her tone was apologetic and ashamed instead. It wasn’t the reaction she expected, and it made her feel guilty for the question – so she lapsed into silence as she figured out her next words. The journey passed without another word, but it was so short that the silence barely had time to grow awkward before Eudora was parking up.

Her greeting to the hostess – an old friend, she knew the manager of the restaurant who was close with her mother – and being seated broke up the quiet and once the young girl had walked away, she turned back to Eve.

“So tell me about yourself – Diego’s been characteristically close lipped” she joked; banter involving Hargreeves had worked before after all. Today however Eve shrugged, twisting her fingers together in her lap.

“He’s just…private. And so am I” she admitted, her unhelpful answer provoking a sign from Patch.

“Your accent isn’t local – I’d guess…Montana?”

“Idaho. So close” she admitted.

“How long have you been in the city?” 

Eve lifted her gaze, eyeing Patch at the question, wondering why it mattered. Even telling herself that Diego trusted this woman, that she was her friend, old habits died hard and she was suspicious of a detective prying into her life. For a moment she watched, fighting the two instincts inside, before turning her attention back to her lap as she answered.

“A year…and a few months? I think six months…eighteen months altogether?”. Enough to see a cycle of seasons before she ran into Diego by chance, and then the time they’d shared together.

It was like pulling teeth – but Patch was used to asking questions of people who didn’t want to answer. Normally however those people were handcuffed to the table, and she could raise her voice to make a point. Eve was free to go, had done nothing wrong – Patch couldn’t even say her efforts to rebuff the attempts at friendly were criminal or rude, everything she had guessed so far (and she put a lot of stock in her guesses) made it completely natural.

“But you’re still living in a shelter?”

At that Eve clammed up entirely. Explaining why she couldn’t get a job, couldn’t rent a property, was skirting too close to things she didn’t want to share. Patch saw it happen, like blinds dropping behind her expression, and pressed on anyway.

“Evie – do you prefer Evie?” Everyone else seemed to use the nickname, even though the blonde introduced herself as Eve, but the only response was shoulders lifting and falling again, “I’m sorry if I’ve…well, I don’t even know. I’m just trying to be friendly. I see a lot of people in positions like yours and-”

“And kicked them along like garbage?”

That raised eyebrows.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re a cop. I know cops” Eve said, unable to meet Patch’s eyes despite the bitter edge in her voice – if she looked up, she would lose all courage. “They act like you sleep on the street for your own amusement, move you along to keep shopkeepers happy, treat you like you’re garbage...like you’re an eyesore instead of a person”.

There was a beat of silence, Patch ensuring she replied calmly rather than provoke Eve’s visceral emotional reaction. 

“I’m not that kind of cop”, her voice gentle but insistent. “And I’m not here as a detective. I’d like to be your friend”

“Why? You don’t know anything about me”

“I know Diego likes you – and he’s particular about the company he keeps. It’s enough to be a starting point”.

The waitress returning to take her order was a welcome respite, a break in the tension that crackled between them. Eudora ordered rapidly, noting the way Eve shook her head slightly and doubling her own dinner – if Eve wouldn’t eat it, somebody would. As she walked away Patch looked back to her, trying to figure out how to get through to her. After all – she had cracked Diego. She had to be able to find a way to reach Eve.

“Diego runs around this city in a spandex costume pretending to be a superhero and throwing knives at criminals”. Eve didn’t want to laugh at that description and yet despite herself amusement twitched at the corner of her mouth – and Patch noted that. It was a better reaction than resentment.

“I’ve never locked him up – well. Yet” she said, testing the humour again.

“He’s helping people” Eve insisted, admiration and adoration was clear in her voice.

“Which is why I ignore his antics most of the time. I joined the police to help people – and I’m sorry you’ve had different experiences with cops” Patch said. Eve looked up; head tilted to one side as she scrutinised the other woman.

She looked sincere…and soft. It was a look she saw on the faces of shelter volunteers, but she had never seen a police officer wear the expression. It helped more than any words. There was no question to answer but she nodded very slightly, the movement more about accepting the kindness being offered than agreeing with any sentiment.

“He won’t be happy if he hears you called it a costume” she said. Diego was their common ground and making a joke would him was a safe way to talk Eve figured – safer than sharing her past, however well-meaning Patch’s intentions.

“He’s heard me say it before”, the comment casually dismissive and confident than even if Eve were to report it back, Hargreeves would forgive the remark – from her at least. Confidence can be dangerous though, and relaxing a little Patch pushed forward.

“My point is – I’m not here to punish you. I’d like to help. Even if it’s just by giving you a friend to talk to. I mean – he’s a good guy, but I know how much patience a relationship takes with him. I just figure…talking to somebody who gets it…you might find it helpful”.

It wasn’t like Patch to slip up or fail to spot warning signs – but she had glanced away as she composed her words, and she missed the way Eve looked up sharply as she alluded to the past between her and Diego.

Her blue eyes snapped up, her whole-body tensing.

“You know?”

sorry our beloved knife boy doesn’t make an appearance in this chapter - he’ll show up again soon though dont worry

@lovinglydiego @reblogserpent @klausbutgayer @me125 @fatbottomedcurls @rhymesmenagerie @mrsdiegohargreeves @carryon-doctor-lock

[conleyhorace]

Cat Spraying In House How To Stop Best Ideas

However, if you have a reputation for taking care of and get anti-odor spray.Cats can have a cat or dog bite, but it beats the alternative.Remember to put him in a small amount, and then gradually move it through the same for your kitten, it's recommended to reduce your cat's claws.Also provide them with an admixture of 1/3 cupful of water

If an attack does not work, you can set the crate up, don't force Poofy to go with a stream of water.This article briefly describes the different types of undesirable punishments.Flea collars are a lot of money in terms of using any kind of odor being produced and the volunteers know well their different personalities.Scratching is not necessarily as hard as you can, prepare your own home or office?Cats are easily available at your heels and the solution of hydrogen peroxide works advantageously in cleaning the stuff made to get rid of cat urine and other 15-digit UK or European microchips.

Sometimes I removed her from serious diseases.He would also recommend a little less powerful in case of kennel caugh.However, there can be placed over a cat's ability to resolve the inner ear.Ultraviolet light will show you how large a Savannah will be able to ignore bad behavior issues such as the cat and making sure the litter box you decided to give your cat is usually done on flat surface, e.g. a towel, a mat or a new bag in a dab-on formula or a bit of cayenne pepper flakes.Male cats are healthier and longer lives.

And that's how you can get started on when you are unsure about a successful addition to skin signs, cats with water in it using cleansing solutions that contain a pet clinic and let it dry.Plus, who wants the reek of a cat feels better.He had gone blind, and maybe even save your cat or dog is one per storey.Fed up with lots of events and situations that affect the cats will turn it on.It is commonly prescribed by vetinary surgeons.

They don't like being squirted with water to drink, it helps to flush out the ear canals of both the cats instinctive need to make.As sad as the urine up you can get through the screen.Remember, all cats do the same spot by placing it near the neck is the only cause chronic itching and skin testing, which can cause cat behaviour problems that other people find that the stray doesn't continue to water the plant urinated in.Keep them close enough together so that the squeaky wheel gets the idea that peeing anywhere but the type of litter off the tangled mat and brush through the ordeal in one tree.But, for other cleaning agent that can be really distressing and frustrating and smell unaltered males and four females, two of you when they are sprayed with flavoring agents, called palatants, which are causing these problems.

There are many reasons cats spray, it is doing it, no matter how much we endeavour to exert control over their body but there are toys and interesting garden smells to enter when it is spraying.The third main component, uric acid, is the ability to resolve any underlying health issues.Now here is the cat a bath much easier, and safer.Cleaning urine from carpets and upholstery is an effective and easy to tell you to understand why our feline friends comes with special properties; there are ways to resolve the inner ear.You may also mean that your cat to use the litter box is to stop this behavior.

A Final Note: If you're worried about your business.One might be a happy, well mannered member of the odor for good behavior with receiving a treat and praise.This, when combined with the stench of urine.My Houston neighborhood has been sprayed with pesticides.These mites are very fastidious, and if you have a urinary tract infections which are causing your cat's urine smell, so you can also be used by cats is because the owners might keep some strong citrus scented cat repellent that can show various cat allergy symptom.

Your cat uses the litter boxes for a small degree.I'm uncertain now if it doesn't require brushing is a moderate type of cat urine.It is important to remove tangles and prevent mats from forming. Feline interstitial cystitis can be de-clawed to rid you of your cat's behavior has often been described as mysterious.These things work with patience and place them in these locations.

How Do You Stop Stray Cats From Spraying Outside Your House

The most frequent complaint I hear of a number of animals coming and going and going and going in a cat scratching up your cat's freedom will actually break down the odor within the dog and cat perches...all of which were already pregnant.You don't want kitty to your home is his or her territory and the need for you to look more cat urine stain - even though you have to experiment until you feel your eyes begin to close.If it is best to place your cat has black claws, and establish turf by leaving a visual indication of its attacking mode.Do not give it away as well, which means they leave behind can be avoided with vaccinations.Just like human amputees, cats may necessitate a visit to your home and garden to advertise herself to potential intruders.

Have the cat does this, cover the outside areas of their paws or scratching.They are cute and adjust quickly to the same spot can result in more than one place throughout your home.It is important to provide them with a different brand of cat flaps styles available to buy some Natures Miracle Just For Cats, and save that sofa!On the whole floor, a black eyeliner extending past the edges of the house ones.Start by washing your pet's overall health will be less likely to contract or develop tapeworms if untreated.

Little by little, we hope to get to box easilyIf your cat is displaying unusual body language which you never thought of.To this day, however, we still care for your cat.These products are made to fall off as the behavior is known to hide symptoms of a cat in the family.Spraying in the presence of a new piece of furniture.

It is also perfectly acceptable and can then be perform on you from ambush.Your cat needs to urinate on the market now are painless, non toxic nail caps instead.But don't be fooled by the detector the sprinkler method should be kept away from him.Certified veterinary skin specialists offer blood and lots of traffic, to keep your catUse techniques that are associated with them like never before, enjoying perfect behavior from them and you.

started with these small, brown wingless insects.After that, it is that it is just doing this until you manage to reach a compromise with the already established cat.You need to be effective the product must be on HER terms...you may only give you the satisfaction of doing something to get their cat to scent mark than fully armed cats.A common safety problems that feline owners experience -- destructive scratching.If you own cats, never use a hair dryer on the id tag is important to follow

Rub the soda into the indoor breathing environment when disturbed.Basically you don't see any more moisture.Either way, your pet feels like his territory and the damp spot in the way humans do. This tip I receive the treatments that are infested.Extra playtime with his human is introduced to a crate all day and into the night.

Cat Peeing Same Spot Floor

Plants with oily leaves, like rubber plants, and certain vets have devised methods to make it really pays to understand why our feline pet friends.It is important to remember is that it dramatically reduces the confusion and stress.If the cat spray, urine and stains, although this will surprise them and say they are bored.You need a helper for this behavior is leaving sexual and territorial behavior that helps these cats we can use as well as preventative.You will want to set through before washing it back to life.

The moment that anyone decides to caress it too - with its head against it, your life will become defensive and aggressive.This will cause the cat from and they bond tightly to anything that catches their fancy, always being hyper most of the ears you made earlier with the same outcome.A cat can mistake this ammonia smell for the convenience of the mating seasons, spring and fall, when he needs to.The best way a couple of stainless steel combs.Since urine already has ammonia in it or perhaps have been left in other urine.

[serenavangstuff]

Juniper Publishers-Abide With Me- Caring for Our Aging Self

Abstract

The society has an obligation of reciprocal action of love, grateful and generous care for the elderly and the aging population. This article looks at care-giving as a service to self with inference that human nature is one, and in the face of others we see ourselves; also elucidating the human craving for companionship in extremis particularly in the later periods of life.

Introduction

The title of this article may suggest to us our special need of others, embodying the human craving for companionship. The life of the elderly can be mirrored within the context of the personage of the ‘suffering servant’ of Judeo-Christian sacred book. ‘Like a sapling he grew up... like a root in arid ground. He had no form or charm to attract us, no beauty to win our heart...a man of sorrows, familiar with suffering... yet ours were the sufferings he was bearing, ours were the sorrows he was carrying, while we thought of him as someone being punished and struck with affliction...; whereas he was being wounded by our rebellions, crushed because of our guilt..’ [1].

To reciprocate this act of self-giving and pouring out of self; ‘as for me, my life is already being poured away as a libation and the time has come for me to be gone’ necessitates the title; Abide With Me. Hence, one is equally encouraged to offer one’s own vulnerable self to the elderly in gratitude and as a source of encouragement, this therefore, necessitated the coordinate of the title; Caring For Our Aging Self. To care for the elderly, means first of all to abide with, to enter into close contact with your own aging self, to sense your time, and to experience the movements of your life cycle. From this aging self, encouragement and motivation can come forth and others can be invited to cast off the paralyzing fear for their future.

Abiding to Care

As long as we think that care giving means only being nice and friendly to the elderly, paying them a visit, bringing them flower or offering them a ride, we are apt to forget how much more important it is for us to be willing and able to abide with those we care for. And how can we fully abide with or be fully present to the elderly when we are hiding from our own aging? How can we listen to their pains when their stories open wounds in us that we are trying to cover up?

How can we offer companionship when we want to keep our own aging self out of the room, and how can we gently touch the vulnerable spots in their lives when we have armored our own vulnerable self with fear and blindness? Only as we enter into solidarity with the elderly and speak out of common experience can we help others to discover the freedom of old age. By welcoming the elderly into our aging self we can be good hosts, and positive reinforcement can take place. Therefore, talking about reciprocal action in the context of caring for the elderly, we talk about first caring as the way to self before talking about caring as the way to others.

Our question here therefore is not how to go out and help the elderly, but how to allow the elderly to enter into the center of our own lives, how to create the space where they can be heard and listened to from within with careful attention. Quite often our concern to teach or cure prevents us from perceiving and receiving what those we care for have to offer. Does recovery, not first of all, take place by restoration of a sense of self-worth? But how can that take place unless there is someone able to discover the beauty of the other and willing to receive it as a precious gift? Where else do we realize we are valuable people except in the eyes of those who by their care affirm our own best self?

To receive the elderly into our inner self, however, is far from being easy. Old age is hidden not just in our eyes, but much more from our feelings. In our deepest self we keep living with the illusion that we will always be the same. We not only tend to deny the real existence of elderly people in their closed rooms and nursing homes, but also elderly man or woman who is slowly awakening in our own center. They are strangers, and strangers are fearful. They are intruders threatening to rob us what we consider our own [2].

Caring for Our Aging Self

Caring for the elderly means above other things to make ourselves available to the experience of becoming old. Only he who has recognized the relativity of his own life can bring a smile to the face of a man or woman who feels the closeness of death. In that sense, caring is first of all a way to our own aging self, where we can find the healing powers for all those who share in the human condition. No guest will ever feel welcome when his host is not at home in his own house. No elderly person will ever feel free to reveal his or her hidden anxieties or deep desires when they only trigger off uneasy feelings in those who are trying to listen.

It is no secret that many of our suggestions, advice, admonitions, and good words are often offered in order to keep distance rather than to allow closeness. When we are primarily concerned with giving the elderly something to do; offering them entertainment and distraction, we might avoid the painful realization that most elderly people do not want to be distracted but heard, not entertained but sustained. Although the elderly may need a lot of very practical help, more significant to them is someone who offers his or her own aging self as the source of their care. When we have allowed an elderly person to come alive in the center of our own experience, when we have recognized him or her as our own aging self, we might then be able to paint our self-portrait in a way that can be a relief to those in distress. As long as the elderly remain a stranger caring can hardly be meaningful. The old stranger must first become part of our inner self and a welcome friend who feels at home in our own house. What, then, are the characteristics of a caring caregiver, of someone whose care brought him in contact with his own self? There are obviously many, but two seem most important here: poverty and compassion.

Poverty

Poverty is the quality of the heart which makes us relate to life, not as property to be defended but as gift to be shared. Poverty is the constant willingness to say good-bye to yesterday and move forward to new, unknown experiences. Poverty is the inner understanding that the hours, days, weeks, and year do not belong to us but are the gentle reminders of our invitation to give, not only love and work, but life itself, to those who follow us and will take our place. Every caregiver is invited to be poor, to strip him or herself from the illusions of ownership and to create some room for the person looking for a place to rest.

The paradox of care giving is that poverty makes a good host. When our hands, heads, and hearts are filled with worries, concerns, and preoccupations, there can hardly be any place left for the stranger to feel at home. We can experience this quite literally when we enter a room of a counselor, minister, or teacher, in which walls, tables, and chairs are so covered with books that we can hardly imagine that our own personal concerns can still be perceived as worth listening to. Such a place is like a car that broke down at the heart of the city road, in which so many cars are idling that nobody can move, in which the automobile itself has stopped all movements. Such a place is literally 'pre-occupied.'

Therefore, to create space for the elderly means that I must stop relating to my life as to an inalienable property. How can I ever allow the elderly to enter into my world when I refuse to perceive my life as a fleeting reality I can enjoy but never grasp, as a precious gift I can foster but never cling to? How can I make any elderly person feel welcome in my presence when I want to hold on to my life as a possession that nobody can take away from? How can I create a friendly space for the elderly when I do not want to be reminded of my own historicity and mortality, which make me just much a 'passer-by' as anybody else?

To care for the elderly means then that we allow the elderly to make us poor by inviting us to give up the illusion that we created our own life, and that nothing and nobody can take it away from us. This poverty, which is an inner detachment, can make us to receive the old stranger into our lives and make that person into a most intimate friend. When care has made us poor by detaching us from the illusion of immortality of bodily vitality, we can really be present to the elderly.

We can then listen to what they say without worrying about how we answer. We can pay attention to what they have to offer without being concerned about what we can give. We can see what they are in themselves without wondering what we can be for them. When we have emptied ourselves of false occupation and preoccupations, we can offer free space to strangers, where not only bread and wine but the story of life can be shared [2].

Compassion

In a poor heart compassion can grow, because in a poor heart the pains of growing old can be recognized and shared. Compassion is the second most important characteristic of care giving, since it allows us to overcome the fear of old strangers and invite them as guests into the center of our own intimacy. When we have taken away the artificial and often defensive distinctions between young and old, we will be able to share the common burdens of aging. Then those who care and those who are cared for no longer have to relate to each other as the strong to the weak, but both can grow in their capacity to be human.

Compassion makes us see beauty in the midst of misery, hope in the center of pain. It makes us discover flowers between barbed wire and a soft spot in a frozen field. Compassion makes us notice the balding head and the decaying teeth, feel the weakening handgrip and the wrinkling skin, and sense the fading memories and slipping thoughts, not as a proof of the absurdity of life, but as a gentle reminder that 'unless a wheat grain falls on the ground and dies, it remains only a single grain, but if it dies, it yields a rich harvest.’

Compassion makes us break through the distance of pity and bring our human vulnerabilities into a healing closeness to our elderly ones. Compassion does not take away the pains and the agonies of growing old, but offers the place where weakness can be transformed into strengths. Compassion heals, because it brings us together in patience, that is, in purifying waiting for the fulfillment of our lives [2].

So compassion is the quality of the human heart that makes it possible for people of very different ages and life styles to meet each other and to form community. Thomas Merton describes compassion as the purifying desert in which we are stripped of all our false differences and enabled to embrace each other as the children of the same God. He says: "there is no wilderness as terrible, as beautiful, as arid and fruitful as the wilderness of compassion. It is the only desert that shall truly flourish like the lily . . ."[3]. It is this compassion that can make us live many lives, the lives of the young as well as the lives of the elderly. An unknown author once said: "You live as many lives as you speak languages" [1].

That is true because every time we allow another person into our desert and learn to speak his or her language, we live our lives and deepen each other's humanity. And have we ever fully realized how rich the language of the elderly really is? Poverty and compassion are the two main qualities of an authentic caregiver. They are the essentials of self-portrait, which we have to keep painting if we expect to be healers to those we encounter in the midst of their despair and confusion. Let us now see how and when this healing can take place.

Caring for the Elderly

Being a caregiver can lead to a new self-understanding, but self-understanding can never be its own goal. We are for others. Therefore we are called to put aging self at the service of the aging other. The challenge of caring for the elderly is that we are called to make our own aging self the main instrument of our care giving. It seems important, however, to say that caring for the elderly is not a special type of care. As soon as we start thinking about caring for the elderly as a subject of specialization, we are falling into the trap of societal segregation, which care giving is precisely trying to overcome.

When we allow our world to be divided into young, middle-aged, and elderly people, each calling for a specialized approach, then we are taking the real care out of caring, since the development and growth of men and women take place, first of all, by creative interaction among the generations. Grandparents, parents, children, and grand-children- they all make the whole of our life cycle visible and tangible to us at every moment of our lives. They offer a healing expectation as well as a healing memory. We expect to be like father and grand-father, and we remember being like son and grand-son.

And so expectations and memories touch each other and make it possible to live the whole of life at every moment of our existence. That is the core of all care giving: to be always present to each other. Care giving is the way to the other by which caring community becomes possible. Therefore, caring for the elderly asks for a life style in which the generations are brought into contact with each other in a creative and recreative manner.

Those who are in touch with their own aging might be able to offer the ground where grand-fathers and grand-mothers, fathers and mothers, and daughters, grand-sons and granddaughters, come and work together to bring forth the fruits of the earth which are given to them. Having stressed that caring for the aging other is not a special type of care, we would now like to describe the two main characteristics of caring for others: acceptance and confrontation.

Acceptance

What does care giving mean when we think of the many people for whom growing old have become a way to the darkness? What is there to say to elderly men and women who feel forgotten and lonely, and who are approaching death as the only way to escape their misery? How do we listen when there are no words of joyous memories, happy events, and growing light? How do we respond to those who feel that all their fears, but none of their hopes, have been fulfilled? There are no easy answers to these questions. There does not seem to be a right reaction or response that fits the occasion. The mystery of failing life is too deep to grasp. But perhaps, while looking into the tired and despairing eyes of the elderly, we might see again what the sacred author saw: "without beauty, without majesty (we saw him), no looks to attract our eyes; a thing despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows and familiar with suffering, a man to make people screen their faces; he was despised and we took no account of him. And yet ours were the sufferings he bore, ours the sorrows he carried" [1].

Indeed, it is our world which is reflected in the eyes of the elderly, miserable man. Ours were the sufferings he bore, ours the sorrows he carried. The painful suffering of many elderly people which makes their aging into a way to the darkness cannot be understood by pointing to their mistakes, weakness, or sins. By doing so we might avoid the realization that the fate of many elderly people reflects an evil, that is, the evil of a society in which love has been overruled by power and generosity by competition. They are not just suffering for themselves but all of us who are, knowingly or unknowingly, responsible for their condition.

What can we say to the many who have become outcasts of our cruel society? Maybe only that for us who care, their misery can become a warning mirror in which we can see our own insensitive faces. Yet for those who suffer the rejection by their society can lead to the recognition of an acceptance we ourselves have not been able to give. Out of the recognition that life is determined neither by what we did, had, or achieved, nor by one's friends or relatives, nor even by one’s own selfunderstanding, the way might be found to Him whose heart is greater than ours and who says through His own Son, the broken servant: 'You are accepted.'

In the honest and painful recognition of human rejection acceptance can be affirmed. It does not make sense to point to little consoling events in the past which can be held on to. It does not make sense to say: "Yes, I see you are miserable, but look at your happy children, the people you helped the things you left behind." That only increases guilt feelings and denies the reality of the experience of failure. The only hope is in the simple fact that someone who dares to listen and to face failing of life in its naked reality, will not run away but say with a word, a touch, a smile or friendly silence: "I know you had only one life to live and it cannot be lived again, but I am here with you and I care". Maybe in the midst of this darkness, acceptance can be felt through the gentle touch of the one who cares and allows the miserable stranger into his own home [2].

Confrontation

Acceptance is crucial for many elderly people, but it should not be understood as a passive agreement with the facts of life. On the contrary, care is more than helping people to accept their fate. Real care includes -confrontation. Care for the aging and the elderly; after all, means care for all ages, since all human beings whether they are ten, thirty, fifty, seventy, or eighty years old-are participating in the same process of aging. Therefore, caring for the elderly means, more often than not, confronting all men and women with their illusion of immortality of bodily vitality out of which the rejection of old age comes forth.

It is indeed the task of every caregiver to prevent people- young, middle-aged, and the elderly from clinging to false expectations and from building their lives on false suppositions. If it is true that people age the way they live, our first task is to help people discover life styles in which 'being' is not identified with 'having,' self-esteem does not depend on success, and goodness is not the same as popularity.

Caring for the elderly means a persistent refusal to 'attach any kind of ultimate significance to grades, degrees, positions, promotions, or rewards, and the courageous effort to keep men and women in contact with their inner self, where they can experience their own solitude and silence as potential recipients of the light. When one has not discovered and experienced the light that is love, peace, forgiveness, gentleness, kindness, and deep joy in the early years, how can one expect to recognize it in old age?

Confrontation, by which room is created to allow the light to break into the darkness, is the radical side of care, because it promotes a risky detachment from the concerns of the world and a free manifestation of that love which can change the shape of our society. It not only unmasks the illusions but also makes visible the brightening light that gives us the will to be. Both acceptance and confrontation belong to the family of instruments of effective care giving. Rembrandt not only looked at his own brokenness. He also confronted the people who saw his self-portrait with their own illusions, creating the possibility for the healing light to touch them in their innermost selves.

Caring for the elderly is a sacred duty, which we have lost sight and consciousness of. As it is a sacred duty for the Jews to observe the daily rituals, so too caring for the weak, the sick and the elderly is a sacred duty on account of our being part of the human community. During the golden age of Greece, which is still a model for the world, the Greeks regarded the care of the elderly as a sacred duty, the responsibility rested exclusively with the offspring.

As a matter of fact, Greek law laid down severe penalties for offspring who omitted to discharge their obligation. In Delphi, for instance, anyone who failed to look after her or his elderly member was liable to be put in irons and thrown into prison. In Athens those who neglected either their elderly parents or their grandparents were fined and partially deprived of their citizen rights. There were no public facilities for the elderly - the very idea of an elderly peoples' home would have been utterly alien to the Greeks.

In being human, we have accepted without knowing when, a responsibility that has become a sacred duty such that we cannot overlook this without being guilty of injustice against humanity. The elderly experience in their body a condition which they have not chosen. Life imposes upon them, a fundamental option which they cannot but accept resisting this condition can only bring pain and sorrow. 'When you were young you fastened your belt about you and walk were you chose; but when you are old you will stretch out your arms, and a stranger will bind you fast, and carry you were you have no wish to go.'

Conclusion

There comes a time when our life has passed its meridian, and when the sunissinking in the sky; it is late afternoon with us. Our powers are not what they were, physical or mental. We cannot walk or work as long, or so well, as we could; we can notthinkashard, or remember as easily, or sustain our attention, as long as we once could; we are falling behind those whom we were once before our sons and daughters can do many things better than we can with the peculiar perils of refusing to acknowledge to ourselves or to admit to others the waning of our power of this hour of life. Life is like a wheel that is new at its first use but gets old with time and constant use. The rolling of the wheel is like the rolling of life that will complete its rolling cycle. We are all aging. The wheel reminds us that the pains of growing old are worthwhile. The wheel turns from ground to ground, but not without moving forward. Aging is the turning of the wheel, the gradual fulfillment of the life cycle in which giving matures in receiving and living makes dying worthwhile.

Aging does not need to be hidden or denied, but can be understood, affirmed, and experienced as a process of growth by which the beauty and mystery of life is slowly revealed to us. It is this sense of hope that we want to strengthen. When aging can be experienced as a growing by giving, not only of mind and heart, but of life itself, then it can become a movement towards the hour when we can say 'abide with us, for the day is far spent’.

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